What do three goofballs, a raging river, an inflatable raft, and a rusty machete have in common? I'll tell you.
The eleventh of September in 2015 was a cloudy but warm autumn morning. My morning began but strapping on my hiking boots, leather jacket, and my rainproof cap before heading outside to our garage where my father was already awake and preparing for our adventure that day. A cardboard box once containing the heavy limp rubber raft purchased a few days before had been torn open and thrown aside. In it's place was the freshly inflated colorful raft leaning against the garage wall along with two oars.
My grandfather soon thereafter rolled into our driveway in his over sized, cherry red sparkling pickup truck holding a Styrofoam cup of coffee from the donut shop down the street. We loaded the raft and oars into the bed of his pickup truck after exchanging hugs and hearty good mornings, all while talking about the plans ahead. We would drive the truck to the boat launch at the Connecticut River and unload the raft, using it to row to an island in the center of the river which was rich in history and legend.
The "Kings Island" was home to an English colony during the settling in New England. The colony had tried to become it's own sovereign nation to be ruled by their own appointed leader, but had been wiped out by English soldiers for treason. Remnants of the colony could still be found on the island since the site was so secluded, though we knew of several treasure hunters which had looted the site for old coins, buttons, blacksmith horse shoes, and forged tools. The foundations of homes still existed though, and appeared as deep sinkholes surrounded in a square by stacks of quarried stones.
Our plan was to reach the island by raft, carry the raft into the woods on the island which would protect it from attracting the attention of thieves and looters, then to hike deep into the woodland on the island to the area where we had been told the ruins were. But the first obstacle of the voyage became apparent when we reached the boat launch, parked the truck, and unloaded the raft at the riverside. The raft was clearly designed for two people, despite being marketed as a three person raft. It could uncomfortably accommodate two grown men, but myself as a third addition to the raft seemed to have no place. But we were determined to see this through, so we devised a seating arrangement. The two men sat cramped into the far ends of either side of the raft and were in charge of the rowing, one having an oar each. I was seated in a crouched position with my knees against my chest between the flayed legs of the two men in the center of the raft. It position was cramping and awkward, but manageable. With a small backpack clutched between my chest and my knees I struggled to maintain my balance upright as the raft departed from the sturdy shore into the swift waters of the river. The rapids were strong and the current swiftly carried us downriver in the direction of the island. In some areas the water became so shallow that I felt the raft scrape the sandy river bottom, and in other areas the oars sank up to the hilt without touching anything below. The water was murky green, fogged by mud and grime. A few times, fish leapt out of the water near our raft, but always too quickly for me to spot. At one point, the river rapids became so strong that one of the oars was torn from my grandfather's hands as he rowed, floating quickly away and bobbing in the frothy green waters far from our raft. We watched it carried away and realized the severity of the situation if we were to lose the other oar too. We would quite literally be, "Up the creek without a paddle," as my grandfather's southern roots would prompt him to say.
By some miracle we managed to reach the banks of the King's Island. Together we were able to carry the raft far enough up the bank to conceal it in a cluster of trees where it wouldn't be spotted from the mainland. We then began our hike, the dense trees of the uncultivated island knitting together overhead like a dark blanket preventing light from shining through. The shade of the forest was ideal for the flies and tiny gnats that swarmed together in clusters, fond of finding finality in one's mouth or eyes for some unknown reason. We were tormented by these flies in spite of being doused in bug repellent. The ground was covered in a thick layer of leaves from years of autumns passing, the leaves were troubling to me since they could easily conceal a snake. But we trekked onward, inspired by every step and training our eyes to look for any signs of a past civilization.
It was while searching for the King's Colony ruins that I stumbled across an interesting discovery. An old looking rusty machete sticking partway out of a tree. The treasure hunter in me could not resist taking home this souvenir. So, holding the machete above my head while perched in between my father and grandfather in our inflatable raft, we steered our humble vessel with our one oar back in the direction of home. Floating down river and drifting close enough to shore to walk the raft inland, we managed to find our way back.
We did not find the ruins of the colony that day, but returned on a subsequent voyage and found the evidence we had been searching for. But after several cleaning, electrifying, and sanding attempts I finally managed to restore the machete and remove all of the rust. It remains one of my favorite treasure hunting finds of all time not only for the location where it was found, but for the memory of the adventure where it was discovered.
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